


With No Hope

by Maelstrom_13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea secretly cares, Depression, Drinking, Greg is having a rough time, Greg is sad, Greg-centric, Hurt/Comfort, John is a Very Good Doctor, M/M, Mental Illness, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft tries to be a good friend, Pre-Slash, Suicidal Ideation, Therapy, background Johnlock, bisexual!greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-08-31 22:36:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8596399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maelstrom_13/pseuds/Maelstrom_13
Summary: A little exploration of Greg dealing with depression and how that affects him , his job, and his relationship with others, particularly Mycroft.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Upon Westminster Bridge](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088311) by [Alter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alter/pseuds/Alter). 



> So, Sherlock came out as a bit of a jerk in this one, but I chalk it up to Greg just being irritable.
> 
> Slightly spoilery TW in the end notes.

Greg Lestrade was tired. Not just the kind of tired that came from too many sleepless nights, too many shifts, and not enough holidays. He was tired all the way through, like the rot had gotten into his bones.

 

He kicked the door to his dingy flat closed behind him and dropped his briefcase. The place was a mess. There were dirty dishes and empty takeaway containers littering the sitting room table and on the floor. The sofa held a mass of crumpled laundry that he’d been too tired to fold. God, but he was a slob. He contemplated dinner but wasn’t hungry, so he dropped onto the sofa and flicked the telly on.

 

The day had been a long one. Sherlock had refused to help with the case, declaring it boring, even though it had Lestrade and the rest of his team stumped. Don’t be dull, surely even your tiny brains can figure this one out the detective had said. So Greg had been tracking down leads the old fashioned way and had made little progress. His mind habitually ran through the information that they already had, lining up his tasks for the next day. Secretly Greg wondered whether John and Sherlock had had a row and that was what was making the detective stroppy, not that he would dare voice that thought aloud.

 

He had gone to the kitchen to grab a beer when suddenly he couldn’t stand the thought of being in his flat one more moment. He needed to get out and clear his head, so he went out the door and started to walk. He couldn’t take it anymore—the grinding weariness, the constant dread in his stomach, the knowledge that at any moment he had fucked something up beyond repair and everyone would know. But of course he’d deal with it, he’d get up tomorrow without complaint and do it all over again. He was a fucking cat with nine lives, and it never stopped.

 

His thoughts turned over and over again as he walked. He found himself wandering down the pedestrian lane of Waterloo Bridge. He stopped at the rail, looking down at the black water below. In the distance the Eye glowed bright. A lorry rumbled past behind him. He hadn’t even remembered a coat.

 

And this is what it had come down to. He knew he wouldn’t jump. Not really. But, in the end, why did it even matter? He could go on living every single day just like he had, when everything was still intolerable and it felt like the same day was playing on repeat, or he could just finish it. And really, he was just a fuckup through and through. Couldn’t even get through his bloody job without relying on that berk of a junkie. Sherlock was the only reason he hadn’t lost his warrant card yet, and everyone knew it. Maybe it really was best just to top himself and get it over with.

 

He absently rubbed his neck. His entire body ached and ached and never stopped. He wondered if he should be crying, should be feeling more than the buzzing emptiness inside him at the thought of hopping the rail and jumping over the side.

 

He wasn’t certain how long the sleek black car had been idling beside him when he registered its presence. A part of his brain knew he should be alert, assessing the situation, taking down the number plate, and he berated himself for his lack of focus. The window rolled down, revealing Mycroft’s creased face. The fuck was Mycroft doing here?

 

“A bit chilly for a stroll, Inspector.”

Greg just shrugged, not even having the energy to be surprised at the other man’s appearance.

“Needed to get out of my flat a bit.”

“Join me in the car.” Mycroft said. As usual it came out as a demand even though Greg knew he most likely meant it as a request. But then, a man like Mycroft Holmes he was used to his requests being instantly accommodated. And why not? Greg walked around to the back passenger side and got in.

It was warm inside and Lestrade realized just how cold he had been. His fingers burned with the change in temperature.

“Gregory—” Mycroft began. Greg noted the hesitance in his voice, odd for someone as powerful and decisive as Mycroft. “I…” he started to speak again, but couldn’t seem to finish his thought.

Lestrade glanced at the posh man beside him then stared down at his knees. “Wasn’t really gonna do it,” he mumbled.

Mycroft made a noncommittal noise.

“Suicide’s for cowards, anyway.”

“No, Detective Inspector, it is for those without hope.” Mycroft’s voice was surprisingly sharp.

Greg didn’t know what to say to that, so he just stared out the window at the passing city.

“Forgive me,” his companion murmured, “I should have noticed sooner.”

Greg wanted to ask what it was that Mycroft should have noticed, but his mouth felt like it was glued shut.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock express their concern.

Lestrade was standing in a dank abandoned warehouse over a dead, nearly dismembered body of a man in his mid-thirties that had been discovered by a couple of homeless blokes looking for a quiet spot to kip earlier that morning. The man had no ID and only a couple soggy notes in his pocket. No mobile, no wallet, no identity, and it was up to Lestrade to figure out who the poor bugger was and what had happened.

Dirty sunlight filtered in through the cracked windows illuminating Sherlock’s bent form kneeling over the body muttering to himself.

Lestrade watched as Sherlock reached out to dig in the dead man’s pockets.

“Gloves,” he bellowed before Sherlock could contaminate yet another crime scene. The younger man gave him a longsuffering look, but took the offered gloves and snapped them on before proceeding to pilfer the corpse. John had a shift at the surgery today, and Sherlock was in a strop, making him even less tolerable than usual. Or maybe it was Greg who had just lost patience for it all. Sherlock had arrived on the scene all swishing coat and smugness, ready to show them all just how brilliant he was.

“Well, it was clear what happened,” Anderson said, breaking the silence.

Lestrade cringed as he saw Sherlock’s head slowly swivel around to focus on the forensics man, knowing he was about to receive a complete dismantling from their favorite consulting detective.

“And pray tell, Anderson, what do you think happened here?” Sherlock asked sarcastically.

“Murdered by those junkies who found him, looks like.”

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose.

“They tried to rob him,” Anderson continued, “but it went wrong and they killed him instead.”

“Why then would they also attempt to _dismember_ the body? And why would they then also alert the police?” Sherlock asked. “No, no don’t answer that. You’ll _contaminate_ the scene with the sheer amount of stupidity you practically ooze.”

Distantly Lestrade heard the two arguing viciously while he stared at the dead bloke on the floor, wondering what it was about this case that had Sherlock interested when he wouldn’t even touch the last one, declaring it so far beneath him as to be ridiculous. _What’s he seeing that I’m not?_ Greg wondered. The answer was, of course, a hell of a lot. Greg could never hope to see the world the way Sherlock or Mycroft did, that was for certain, would never be that smart or observant. Lately his mind was like a sieve and he couldn't even hold on to the bits of information that he did manage to glean from the scene of crime. Earlier that week Sally had told him about a meeting three different times and he had still managed to forget.

And dear god was he tired. So exhausted that his bones hurt, and the last thing he wanted to be doing was playing referee between Anderson and Sherlock. He snapped out of his reverie to see the two of them still going at each other.

“Oi! You two!” Lestrade yelled. “Am I going to have to separate the pair of you? Anderson, finish bagging evidence and get it to the lab. Sherlock, tell me what you see so we can all fuck off home that much quicker, if you please.”

Both men seemed taken aback by his abruptness. Sherlock recovered first and started spouting off his deductions—the man’s manicured nails, the missing ring, the creases in his trousers.

“This man didn’t belong here, so why was he here? Most likely to meet someone. Who was he meeting and why was it here? There are four possibilities. I will contact my homeless network. It’s likely one of them saw the bookie even if they didn’t realize it.”

“Right. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he said to Sherlock’s haughtily retreating form, even as he realized he had no idea what the younger man had just said. Well, he’d find out soon enough, as long as Sherlock didn’t decide to keep that particular bit of information to himself. He’d actually done that once, solved a case in an afternoon and then refused to share his deductions, declaring it boring. Greg had nearly clocked him. Thankfully Sherlock’s got John around who generally discourages things like keeping information from the police. It also helps that he plays on Sherlock’s ego to get him to share information, sometimes deliberately and to comic effect. Greg just shook his head and finished giving his team directions before leaving the scene to head back to his office.

 

“Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade turned around, surprised to find Sherlock lurking around the corner as Greg was leaving the scene of crime. “Thought you were off tracking down one of your network.”

Sherlock ignored him, as per usual, and continued on. “John would like me to inform you that you are welcome at Baker Street for dinner.”

Lestrade paused in surprise. “Lovely. I’ll have to take him up on the offer some night.”

Sherlock’s gaze dropped to the ground “I believe you would be welcome tonight. At 7 o’clock.”

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. This was an interesting development. “So, John wants me there for dinner tonight?”

The consulting detective looked pained. “It would appear so.”

“And if I say no?”

Sherlock paused, mouth open as though to say something but no sound came out.

A smile spread across Greg’s face. “Not afraid of your flatmate, are you?”

Sherlock looked indignant. “Of course not! He’s small and wears those horrid jumpers.”

“And has a gun that I _don’t_ know about.” _And shot a cabbie that I_ _ **absolutely**_ _don’t know about_ , thought Lestrade.

“Yes, well. There is that. Now, would you please accompany me back to the flat?”

A please coming from Sherlock was a rare occurrence indeed, and in Greg’s book it deserved a reward. Clearly there was something going on between the two, he just hoped that whatever it was would make the pair better and not worse.

“Right. Let me just swing by the office first and tie up some loose ends. I promise I will be at Baker Street by seven.”

Sherlock covered his relief with cool indifference that was patently transparent. “Very well, we will see you then.” He turned his collar up and strode away, magically hailing a cab on the first try.

Bugger that, what Lestrade really wanted was to be tucking into some takeaway on the sofa with a match of footie on, but who was he to deny John an evening of normalcy? Or, as normal as life ever would get with Sherlock around anyway.

Greg walked back to the panda car, dialing Mycroft.

“Did you know your brother is afraid of his flatmate?” He asked after hearing Mycroft’s perfunctory greeting.

“I’m not sure I would use that particular descriptor for their relationship,” came the distracted reply. He heard typing in the background, Mycroft multitasking on some government crisis.

“Oh? They finally quit dancing around each other and got on with it then?”

“It would appear so. Doctor Watson at least is no longer proclaiming his lack of attraction for the male gender quite so vociferously. And last week Sherlock’s gait showed evidence of—”

“No! I _really_ don’t want to know. Just glad to hear they got that sorted, then.”

There was a pause and then, “How are you doing, Gregory?”

“Eh, you know. Got a body with no ID, trying to sort it all out now. Be better when I’m thawed out again.”

“Well then, I wish you luck in your endeavors.” There was another small pause. “And, how are—”

“I’m fine,” Greg growled. “And you can kindly keep your nose out and stop _monitoring_ me. I was just feeling a bit off that night. I’m fine now, promise.”

“My most sincere apologies, Detective Inspector, I did not intend to pry.”

“I’m sorry, Mycroft. I’m just short of sleep and frozen through right now,” he apologized.

Mycroft murmured something noncommittal before ringing off.

Not for the first time Greg wondered what the hell was wrong with him.

 

Greg paused on the pavement outside 221B. If he was honest, he felt like shit and just wanted to go home. It was the end of the day and he was so bloody tired, and the thought of sitting and talking to people, even John and Sherlock—especially John and Sherlock—was just too much.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door after he started pounding on it with the knocker—the bell was clearly still out of service and he’d wager anything John didn’t know about it.

“Inspector!” She cooed.

“Mrs. Hudson.”

“Oh dear, you’re looking peaky. Are you well?”

“Just a bit under the weather, you know how it is.”

“Of course—” She was about to prattle on about some remedy or another, he was sure of it, and if he didn’t divert the conversation now he’d be stuck on the landing for another half hour discussing her hip in vivid detail.

“Right,” he interrupted. “Are John and Sherlock about? I don’t think their bell is working.”

“Oh, the bell. I think Sherlock took it apart again—some experiment or another, you know how he goes on.”

Greg smiled in agreement, extricating himself from the conversation and making his way up to the flat above.

He could hear Sherlock and John on the other side bickering about something. He took a deep breath and knocked on the worn wooden door.

Sherlock opened the door with a flourish. “Graham,” he greeted.

“Greg,” Lestrade corrected futilely.

“You’re looking tired,” Sherlock said suspiciously.

“Ta for that.” Greg shot back. “That’s what murder investigations with no leads will do to us mere mortals.”

John poked his head out from the kitchen where he stood over a pan of curry on the stove.

“Hey mate, glad you could make it.” John wiped his hands on his trousers and came into the lounge interrupting the exchange.

“Yeah, well Sherlock was pretty insistent about it.”

“He was?” John looked surprised. Sherlock suddenly found something fascinating on the floor.

“Right. Well, come in. Sorry about the mess, we’ll have to sit in the lounge to eat,” John said with a significant glance at Sherlock. Much to Lestrade’s surprise the consulting detective actually looked contrite before filling his own plate with food and settling on the sofa.

The three men sat in the lounge, John and Greg discussing the latest football match while Sherlock picked very carefully through his food. No doubt he was conducting some strange experiment on the damned curry, Greg thought.

Eventually Sherlock cleaned his plate while waiting none too patiently for the others to finish before standing up and wordlessly collecting their dishes. Greg raised an eyebrow as the younger man began the washing up.

“What, are you training him then?”

John’s face colored. “He just… does that now. I think he read about it somewhere.”

John was saved from further explanation by Sherlock’s mobile chiming.

The consulting detective checked the screen before muttering “Brilliant!” to himself then donning his scarf and Belstaff on the way out the door.

“And where are you going?” John asked, seemingly used to his flatmate’s abrupt behavior.

“Molly. Body parts. Don’t wait up.” And with that he was out the flat.

John just shook his head. “Sorry about him. He’s—”

“He’s Sherlock,” Greg finished. “You don’t have to apologize for him. I’ve been putting up with him for a long time now.”

“Yeah, he can be a bit odd, I suppose.”

“You got that right.”

“But he’s got a good heart when you get down to it.”

“Yeah, he has his moments,” Greg agreed. “But the two of you get on.”

John nodded smiling faintly as he got up to pour them drinks.

“I’ve got the good stuff” John said, brandishing a bottle of clear liquor with a Czech-looking name on the front. “Bugger if I know how to pronounce it but it’s good. Sherlock nicked this from Mycroft at some point, said he was being more annoying than usual. I found it under Sherlock’s bed of all places.”

“Right, so what’s the story with you two, then?”

John fiddled with his glass, avoiding eye contact. “What do you mean? We’re just flatmates.”

“Could have fooled me. The way the two of you are with each other, looks more like being a couple than anything. A strange one, I’ll grant you, but still.”

“I dunno. It’s just—it’s a bit complicated, that’s all.”

“Hard to go from thinking you’re one hundred percent straight to maybe fancying your best friend?”

John hid his reaction behind his drink.

“Look, it’s none of my business, it’s just—you two make each other happy. And lord knows Sherlock is a hell of a lot easier to deal with when you’re around.”

“Well, erm. Thanks.”

Greg set his glass down realizing he had downed more than half of it already. He was feeling more tired by the minute and the alcohol was starting to go to his head. He opened his mouth to start making his excuses and be on his way to his flat when John cleared his throat nervously.

“There is one thing I wanted to talk to you about,” the younger man said.

“About Sherlock?”

“No. About you.”

“What about me? You’re not going to try and set me up on a blind date, are you?”

John chuckled. “No, nothing like that. It’s just… You haven’t seemed to be yourself lately, and it’s a bit worrying. Is, uh, is everything alright?”

Greg shook his head. “Ta mate, really, but I’m fine.”

“Just out of curiosity, when was the last time you had a checkup?”

“Did Mycroft put you up to this? I’m fine, John. Really,” Greg replied in frustration. “I’m just a bit tired and worn out and I’ve got a headache. I should probably get going.”

“Mycroft?” John seemed surprised at the mention of Sherlock’s older brother before switching thoughts. “Erm, do you get headaches regularly?”

“Look, I appreciate your concern,” Greg ground out, “But leave it off, alright? It’s just, we’ve got a difficult case on and it’s got us all a bit worn down.”

John put his hands up in a nonthreatening gesture. “Sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t have badgered you about it. Just remember to take care of yourself. Sherlock really cares about you even though it would apparently kill him to say something and, well—I appreciate you too.”

“Sherlock cares about keeping me alive just so I can hand him cases.” He had meant it as a joke, but somehow it came out more sour than he had intended.

John smiled and shook his head. “I know he's got his rough edges, but Sherlock cares about you more than you think. He'd never say it right out, but he respects you.”

Greg shook his head. “I'm sure he does,” he said, but this time it was without heat.

“Really, there's more to him than people see.”

“You sound completely gone on him, mate.”

John's face colored.

“No worries, your secret is safe with me.”

Greg got up to leave and John followed suit. “Well ta for the curry. I've got to get some sleep, it'll be another long day tomorrow.”

 

Lestrade left Baker street feeling like utter shite. He didn’t know what was wrong with him—John was a friend who just wanted to help. And as much as he knew he needed someone to help, he felt poked and prodded and so damn _angry_ when they did.

He didn’t feel anywhere near as bad as he had the night Mycroft had stopped him on the bridge, but there were moments where he just wanted to crawl out of his own skin. Moments when he thought about stepping in front of a lorry as it passed, nights when the buzzing numbness of his limbs made him feel slow and heavy but he still couldn’t sleep.

He _knew_ that peopled cared, but he just couldn’t shake the feeling that they were ganging up on him, all crowding ‘round to point out his weaknesses. Mycroft, with his subtle comments about therapy, John with his doctorly concern. Even Sherlock, apparently, in his own way.

Greg shook the dark thoughts off as he walked through the drizzle to the Tube.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg realizes how bad things have become and decides to do something about it.
> 
> There will be a second fic that explores Greg and Mycroft's relationship further as well as Greg's experiences in treating his depression.

It was pissing down rain as Greg stood sheltered by an overhang with his mobile in his hand. There was a double homicide two blocks down that he was meant to be investigating but he had been turned away at the door by Sally who took one look at him before announcing that they could go a day without him and would it kill him to take a sick day for once? He knew he must look bad if even Sally was trying to bully him into taking time off.

He stared at his mobile, feeling lost. He really didn't want to go back to his flat all alone, and come to think of it he did feel damn awful. He thought about it for a minute before deciding to text John.

> You at the surgery today? GL

> Day off. There a case? JW

> Not feeling well. Was actually hoping to get an appointment. GL

> Come on over, I’ll have a look if you’d like. JW

> On my way. GL

 

 

The flat was quiet when Lestrade arrived. John greeted him at the door sock-footed and wearing a worn jumper.

“Sorry, I’m interrupting your day off, aren’t I?” Greg said.

“Not at all. It’s actually a welcome distraction. The flat’s a bit too quiet today.”

“Where’s Sherlock at then?”

“No idea. There was a bit of mumbling while I was in the kitchen this morning and then the door slammed, so there’s no telling. I’m sure he’s told me at some point. Whether I was actually in the same room at the time is another question.” John rolled his eyes, but his fond smile betrayed him.

John motioned him into the lounge where his medical kit was sitting on the coffee table. He excavated a wooden chair, stacking the papers and books it held on top of the already-loaded table before dragging it over next to his usual stuffed chair.

“I would apologize for the mess but I didn’t make it and I say that every time someone comes to visit, so. Please, sit.”

Greg settled in the stuffed chair while John sat across from him and produced a thermometer, blood pressure cuff, and stethoscope from his bag.

“Symptoms?” John prompted.

“Just kind of feel lousy. A little bit of a cough, but it’s not that bad.”

“Right, open up,” John instructed, sticking the thermometer in Greg’s mouth. While he waited for a reading he wrapped the blood pressure cuff around Greg’s arm and inflated it.

“Temp’s normal, so you don’t have a fever. Blood pressure is…. 145 over 90, that’s a bit high. Do you normally have high blood pressure?”

Greg shrugged. “Dunno, really. Don't go in for a check up that regularly.”

“Any family history of heart disease, stroke?”

“My da died of a stroke when he was 67.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, it was a while back.”

“Open up and say ‘ah.’ Mmmmm, a bit red but it looks alright,” John said palpating Greg’s neck and under his jaw. “Lymph nodes are a little swollen, so you’re probably fighting something off.”

John had him lean forward then pressed the stethoscope to his back and told him to take deep breaths.

“Lungs sound pretty clear. How often do you smoke?”

“Mostly quit. Maybe a couple a week?”

“How often do you drink?”

“Um, not too much. Maybe a few drinks a week?”

“How many is a few?”

He shifted in his chair under John’s gaze. “I don’t know, a few beers, a little bit of bourbon every now and then.”

John nodded but still looked sceptical. “Are you up to date on all your jabs?”

Greg rubbed the back of his neck. “Not really, no.”

“I would recommend at least a flu jab. You don’t want to be out for a week feeling like death because you forgot to get it. How’s your diet?”

“You know how it is. Long hours, not much time to cook.”

“So takeaway then.”

“When I remember, yeah.”

“Do you often forget to eat?”

“Just depends.”

“Have you noticed any weight loss?”

“Bloody hell, John, I just got a little cough.”

“Right, sorry. In my professional opinion, I think you’ve got a bit of a sore throat.” John said, putting the stethoscope and cuff away.

“Is that an official diagnosis?” Greg smiled.

John grinned in reply and shrugged. “You’re probably just run down and your immune system got overwhelmed. Take it easy for a couple days, plenty of fluids, you should be back to normal pretty quickly. But—” he held a hand up to stop the older man’s protest. “I still am a bit worried.”

John looked a bit uncomfortable but charged gamely on. “I’ll leave it off if you like, but I can put together some resources for you, some good doctors.”

“I think Mycroft has you beat on that one,” Greg said, thinking about the couple texts and emails he'd gotten lately with various bits of information and resources.

“Mycroft?” John raised an eyebrow, looking vaguely disturbed. “You mentioned him last time. Are you two…?”

“I sort of liaise with MI5—unofficially.”

“Right.” John crinkled his brow, momentarily at a loss for words. “MI5, then?”

“Well, you know. Five, Six. Who knows who all he answers to.”

John was looking more perplexed by the minute. “And does Sherlock know?”

Greg laughed ruefully. “Wouldn’t expect him not to.”

“Fair point. Just think about it, alright?”

“Yeah, sure thing,” Greg responded.  
  


 

Three days later Lestrade sat at his desk, staring down at the paperwork in front of him. He was coordinating with the drugs squad over a particularly nasty turf war that had left several bodies behind and which Mycroft was also interested in—something to do with the national security of one country or another, and _you don’t need to worry about the details_ , which meant it was higher than even Lestrade’s clearance level—but he couldn’t make his brain process the words in front of him. Mycroft was relying on him to have his wits about him, to track the movements of several gang members and to make the kinds of connections no one else was in a position to make. There were lives depending on him being at his sharpest and most focused. That was why Mycroft had chosen him to liaise with—not just because Greg could put up with his errant baby brother, but also because while he would never be Holmes-level genius, he was damned good. Or, at least he used to be. His solve rate was slipping and nothing made sense anymore. What was worse was that he just couldn’t bring himself to care.

But he would get through it, it’s what he always did. He got through it when his da disowned him after catching him kissing his best mate at 16. He got through it when his mum got sick and then when she passed, when Josie lied and lied and then finally left. It was what he did. But there was a nagging voice in the back of his head that told him that this time it would be the end of him.

His mobile rang, breaking him out of his reverie. He realized with a start that we he was supposed to send Mycroft his analysis an hour ago, and now the man was calling to check in.

“Hey, Myc,” he greeted, trying to keep his voice light.

“Gregory. I need you to send over your files on that one matter. We need to reach certain members before the NSY conducts their raid.”

“I’m still working on it. I just need a little more time.” The moment the words were out of his mouth he knew Mycroft would know everything. Some minor inflection in his voice, a combination of words deemed unusual to give him away.

“Is everything alright?” Mycroft’s voice was sharp. No doubt he was realizing how slow and inept Lestrade was at this very moment.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m just…. I’ve got a bit of a headache is all. Give me to the end of the day and I’ll have everything ready. Promise.”

“I can have this reassigned if need be.”

“No. Really.” He tried to keep the note of panic out of his voice. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Gregory, are you feeling alright?”

There was a long pause and then, “Is this to do with the other week?” Idly Greg noted that the only time he heard Mycroft sound hesitant was whenever this topic came up.

“Have you considered seeing a doctor about this?”

“Nah, I mean, really ‘s not so bad.” He was aware of how ridiculous he sounded right now, but really—it wasn’t _that_ bad now, was it? Maybe a few days here and there he found himself staring off into space at his desk with no idea what he’d actually got done that day, but it wasn’t all that often.

There was hissing silence on the other end of the line.

“Many people with depression don’t realize how bad it is until they get treatment,” Mycroft finally said. It sounded like a rehearsed line.

“I promise you, Myc, I’m not going to suddenly be completely unable to do my job. I mean—this is just a one-off. I just need ‘til the end of day and I’ll get you everything you need.” There was a pleading note to his voice that made Greg wince to hear.

“That’s not what I worry about, Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was soft.

There was another moment of silence while Greg thought more about Mycroft's question.

“And really— _If_ I went to a doctor, it would go on my record. Can’t really have a mental copper on the job, now can you?”

“I can arrange for a private physician if you would prefer. It would be discreet, no one need know.”

“What and pay 70 quid for fifteen minutes with some posh, over-educated bloke who’s been raised on his da’s money?”

“Thank you, Gregory, I do know how you feel about my status.”

Greg huffed a laugh, recognizing one of Mycroft’s rare jokes. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. Besides, you’re alright for a posh, over-educated bloke.”

“But not Sherlock. Manners aside, no one would ever accuse him of being over-educated.”

Greg could practically hear the grimace in Mycroft’s voice. Sherlock’s failure to complete university was a sore spot for his brother.

Mycroft continued. “And you know perfectly well that a majority of private physicians also work for the NHS.”

Greg made a noncommittal noise.

“Gregory, you were there while my brother was squandering his extraordinary intellect and wallowing in his own filth. You saw him through when I could not and you continue to help him despite the professional risk and frankly, the great number of headaches he causes you, and for that I am eternally grateful. Doing this one thing for you would not even begin to repay that debt.”

There was an uncharacteristic intensity to Mycroft’s words, but Greg still hesitated. The other man spoke again before Greg could protest.

“The offer stands. I won’t speak of it again if it will distress you.”

Anthea sat at Mycroft’s elbow as her boss carefully debated the merits of a new proposed security protocol with the other politicians in the room while she was collecting and analyzing reports on a different assignment that was currently in progress. It was a hastily assembled meeting, the situation having quickly become volatile, and Mycroft was called in to play peacekeeper. It was a position that he both excelled at and loathed. To make matters worse, it had them both on a plane and in a different time zone on very short notice.

Mycroft’s mobile buzzed once in his pocket, inaudible to everyone else in the room. Normally her boss was conscientious about turning his mobile off during meetings and she was sure it wasn’t merely an oversight, lack of sleep notwithstanding. He must still be worrying about Lestrade.

Anthea tapped the icon on her screen that allowed her access to her employer’s mobile and pulled up his text history. There was indeed one unread message from the DI.

Pulling up Lestrade’s location she noted that he was still at his flat. At least he wasn’t out roaming London and contemplating bridges again.

 

> If the offer still stands for that appointment, it might be a good idea. GL

 

It was currently three AM in London, a worrying sign. She closed the program and pulled up the text function on her own mobile.

 

>Mycroft in a meeting. When would be convenient for the appointment? A

 

The response came back nearly immediately.

 

>Sooner rather than later, I suppose. GL

 

>Are you in danger? A

 

>I’m fine. An appointment this week would be good though if possible. GL

 

>I assume you have my schedule. GL

 

>Correct. I will set it up and text the details. A

 

>Thank you. GL

 

>Of course. A

 

Next Anthea pulled up a blank text to John.

 

>GL feeling unwell. Please check on him. A

 

Mycroft was glancing at her quizzically during his discussion, a deepening wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. The conversation did not appear to be wrapping up any time soon and Mycroft needed to keep his entire attention on the proceedings. She caught his eye and nodded once, firmly, before turning her attention back to her mobile.

She would do everything in her power to help Greg, not only for his own sake but also for her employer who pretended all too often that he wasn’t human.

 

 

Greg hadn’t meant to make a fuss. He was just lying in bed and couldn’t sleep (again). He felt like everything was weighing on his chest and it all just hit him. He couldn’t imagine one more week—one more day, if he was honest—like he had been. So he rolled over and texted Mycroft to say that yeah, he’d take him up on the offer to see a doctor, figuring that he would see the text in the morning. The next thing Greg knew his phone was pinging an alert for a text message from Anthea asking him if he was ok, and then twenty minutes after that came a confused and worried call from a very sleepy sounding John.

“You alright, mate?” John asked through a yawn.

“I’m fine,” Greg frowned. “Why are you calling me at half three?”

“Anthea got me up, told me to call you. Said it was important?”

Greg was silent a minute as he processed that one.

“So why exactly was Anthea telling me to call you in the middle of the night?”

Greg sighed. “It’s a long story. I’m sorry to worry you but really, everything’s alright.”

“Right. Well. Glad to hear it. Um… this isn’t to do with…”

“John, I’m fine. It’s all being taken care of.”

“Good. That’s good. … Listen, if you need anything, you’ll ring me, won’t you?”

Greg suddenly couldn’t speak for the lump in his throat. “Yeah, I will,” he rasped.

There was a rustling of sheets on the other end and then he heard Sherlock’s bleary voice asking what exactly John thought he was doing.

“Say goodnight to himself too,” Greg said cheekily.

“Shut it, you.” John growled back.

“Ta, mate. See you.”

John mumbled something incoherent in reply and then cut the line.

Well, this was already making for an interesting day.

 

 

Anthea had set his appointment up in record time —something else he didn’t want to think about too hard—and three days later he found himself in a nondescript private clinic sat across from a studious middle-aged man in a tastefully decorated office. It was a far cry from the sterile NHS surgeries he was familiar with.

And it was a strange experience—one didn’t normally go crying all over strangers, did they?—but he did his best to be candid and tell the man what had been going on in his own head. Once he started to add it all up—the sleepless nights, the crushing despair, the feeling like everything was horrifically pointless—he started to wonder how he had even got as far as he had. Or whether he was just making it all up in the first place. How could he know whether his brain was playing tricks on itself or not?

After a consult with the psychiatrist he left with a script for an antidepressant and a follow-up appointment set. He walked out of the office feeling both unburdened and drained of energy.

Greg wasn’t at all surprised to see a familiar black car waiting to take him back to Scotland Yard, but it was a surprise to see Anthea sitting in the back, seemingly absorbed with her phone. He sat in silence for a few minutes, watching London roll past outside.

“Thank you for… everything. You didn’t have to do that for me but, well. Thanks.”

Anthea looked up from her mobile and fixed him with her gaze. “You are in integral part of Mr. Holmes’ life,” she said, turning her attention back to whatever matters of national (or international) security she was currently dealing with.

His cheeks colored. Was that a dismissal? Encouragement? A Threat? He had no doubt this woman could destroy him if she took it into her head.

“Right. Well. Thanks again.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did some cursory research into Britain's private healthcare system, so hopefully everything is correct.

**Author's Note:**

> TW: There are references to Greg thinking about suicide, but he doesn't contemplate it seriously. He also makes a derisive remark about people who kill themselves but is quickly corrected.


End file.
